


Denoument

by IndianSummer13



Series: Picket Fences [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Pregnancy, reference to miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 17:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13439658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndianSummer13/pseuds/IndianSummer13
Summary: He’s shovelling handfuls of M&Ms in with barely any room for chewing when his girl - halfway through a Kitkat - shifts against him, making a noise that’s not quite a grumble, but he can tell there’s some discomfort there.“What is it?”“Nothing,” she says, taking another bite of chocolate-covered wafer.“Betts.”“He’s practising his soccer skills,” she replies. “That’s all.”He eyes her stomach and soothes his hand over the stretched skin. This time when she shifts, it’s only to move closer..Or, finally, Jughead gets everything he ever wanted.





	Denoument

**Author's Note:**

> This follows on from Anchor and Crosswind, but can also be read as a stand-alone piece. The other works in this series do provide some backstory though.

He can hear their voices as he nears the aisle of canned goods.

“We need crushed tomatoes; can you find them?”

These days, the involuntary smiles that tug his lips upward aren’t something Jughead ever tries to hide. He’s happy. _They’re_ happy.

And, he knows, they deserve it.

It’s quiet for a moment, and he can picture the look of intense concentration on their daughter’s face as she searches for one of Betty’s store-cupboard staples.

“There!” she squeals excitedly. “Up there!”

He reaches them just as Betty’s hoisting Isabella onto her hip so she can reach the can, and he swoops in, hands hooking underneath their little girl’s arms so he can set her on his shoulders instead.

“Daddy!” she shrieks, wriggling so that her sparkly pink chucks hit against his chest.

“Now mama has both hands free to push the cart,” he says, bending a little so Isabella can reach the can she needs. His lips brush Betty’s ear, free hand splaying gently against the base of her spine as he says quietly, “Mama shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting.”

She turns to take the can their daughter is holding out expectantly, stretched stomach bumping gently against him and he raises an eyebrow.

It proves his point exactly.

“I’m fine Juggie,” she says.

“I know. And I want to keep it that way.”

He _does_ let her stretch on her tiptoes to kiss him - selfish only for that moment - and then his hand returns to its place at the bottom of her back as they navigate the remainder of the aisles.

  
  
  
  


“I can do it daddy!”

He watches in amusement as two blonde pigtails bounce against her shoulders, her tiny hands wheeling the cartful of groceries to their car. He’s not far behind - is _never_ far behind - as Isabella stomps purposefully in her dungarees across the parking lot.

All three feet and half an inch of her is the perfect carbon copy of Betty. Hair. Eyes. Lips. Even her personality is the same.

He wouldn’t change that for the world - is thankful his baby girl won the gene lottery. Although he’s not sure how he’s going to feel about that when she’s a teenager, for now, it’s a blessing.

“Please can we eat soon?” she asks. “I’m starving.”

Jughead chuckles and Betty rolls her eyes. “If this one has your appetite too, I don’t know how we’re going to afford groceries.”

“I’ll get a second job,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple before lifting their daughter so he can place her in the car seat. “We’ll have lunch when we get home baby.”

When he heads back round to the trunk, Betty rests a hand on his forearm. “You work too hard already. We’ll manage.”

His eyes flicker to her chest and a smirk crosses his mouth. “Looks like your body’s got it covered anyway.”

“Jughead Jones!” she replies indignantly, but there’s such happiness in her eyes that she’s fooling nobody.

(Later, when Isabella’s asleep, she proceeds to show him just how _prepared_ her body is)

  
  
  
  


It’s late one night (or early one morning - their sleep schedule is somewhat interrupted by Betty’s inability to get comfortable lately) when he’s stroking patterns on her arms in a bid to get help her drift off. Her eyes are heavy as she shifts several times so that she’s facing him - a difficult task when her stomach is protruding the way it is - and she says,

“Do you still think about it?”

His throat feels thick. “Yes.”

It’s silent for a few moments - he doesn’t need to ask her the same question: already knows it’ll be an ever-present memory. And then she says,

“I feel guilty, sometimes,” she whispers. “For being happy.”

“Betts,” he chokes, pulling her closer so that he can curve himself around her; so he can hold her properly in spite of the barrier of her stomach.

“I know we deserve it,” she says, a couple hot tears spilling onto his chest. “I _do_. But…”

He presses kisses to as much of her face as he can reach: eyelids, cheeks, forehead, nose, lips. There aren’t words he can use to make it better: he knows she still feels it’s a failing - like it’s _her_ fault.

He just hopes that now that she _knows_ that it isn’t (because she does _know_ at least) she won’t _feel_ it quite so much.

So when her tears dry and she lifts her head with a shaky, tentative smile, Jughead peels off the t-shirt she’s wearing, and then her panties, so he can kiss the rest of her.

He only wants her to feel good things now.

  
  
  
  


“Can I please have a snack Mama?” Isabella asks, lifting her head from the picture she’s working on. From the angle he’s lying at, Jughead thinks it might be a bear - or a wolf - but he also can’t rule out a castle. “I’m starving.”

He feels Betty shift on top of him and mumble sleepily into his chest, “We’ve got to teach her what that word really means.”

A chuckle rumbles through him and he stills her before she can get up. He didn’t get much sleep the previous night but figures she got even less. “I’ll get it.”

She squeezes his hand gratefully and he smiles as she closes her eyes again.

He loves Sundays.

He slices an apple into bite-sized wedges and then spoons a dollop of the organic peanut butter Betty insists they buy onto a plate, then repeats his actions. Snacktime when Isabella’s around is a much healthier affair than he’s ever been used to, but Betty had been adamant they weren’t going to bring their child up on a diet of the junk food he loves.

He’s not about to parent their child the way his parents (or hers, for that matter) had demonstrated years ago: they’re a team. No arguing. No yelling. No popping the cap off a beer and sinking onto the couch when things don't go to plan.

They’re doing this right.

He hands Isabella her snack, plants a kiss on the crown of her hair where a pretty lilac ribbon sits, and then lifts Betty’s head gently so he can sit back down on the couch.

“You enjoy that apple,” she murmurs with a grin.

Jughead lifts an eyebrow but already, her eyes are closed again. “I will.”

  
  
  
  


He remembers a time - before Isabella - back when those rings on Betty’s left hand were new, when their nightly ritual involved eating dinner (often with plates on their laps on the couch) with some carefully-selected movie playing in the background. They’d talk about their day and he’d moan that he was tired and she’d knead the knots in his shoulders so expertly that he’d have to force himself not to fall asleep just so he could spend more time with her.

They’d shower together and he’d press her up against the tiles and make her moan loud enough that it would drown out the sound of the running water.

Now, one of the things he looks forward to the most, is what Betty calls ‘treat time’.

They bath their little girl and read her a story (and then another when she uses those doe eyes of hers they’re both powerless to: _“Just one more, please?”_ ) and then, when she’s asleep, the sugary snacks Jughead buys at the grocery store and stows away before he joins them both are free to eat.

Betty won’t ruin their daughter’s teeth but she appears to have no such concern for their own.

He’s shovelling handfuls of M&Ms in with barely any room for chewing when his girl - halfway through a Kitkat - shifts against him, making a noise that’s not quite a grumble, but he can tell there’s some discomfort there.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” she says, taking another bite of chocolate-covered wafer.

“ _Betts_.”

“He’s practising his soccer skills,” she replies. “That’s all.”

Jughead eyes her stomach and soothes his hand over the stretched skin. This time when she shifts, it’s only to move closer.

He dusts a kiss to her temple and resumes the carding of her hair with his fingertips.

  
  
  
  


There’s a weak light filtering into the room when his eyes open. He doesn’t need it to know that Betty’s not in bed beside him: he can sense her presence now way before he feels it, and he can _feel_ that she’s not here.

He pads out to the kitchen, shoving his hand through that mass of hair that never seems to be falling the right way, and finds her leaning against the counter.

She lifts her head, eyes soft when she looks at him and there’s a sliver of moonlight that’s framing her so perfectly that she looks ethereal. “I think he might be coming,” she says quietly.

His body jerks forward of its own volition, hands reaching out to press her hips gently, and she leans back against his chest.

“How long have you been up?” he asks.

“Around an hour or so.”

“Baby, you should have woken me.”

“You’re tired,” she says. “I wanted you to get some sleep.”

His heart stutters in his chest. Even during this, she insists on being selfless. “Well I’m up now,” he says. “Can I get you anything?”

She shakes her head with a soft sigh. “Just stay here with me?”

He holds her just a little tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  
  
  
  


It’s different this time.

Everything is calmer.

Jughead holds her hand as she brings their son into the world, and then, they’re a picture-perfect family - the four of them snuggled up on Betty’s hospital bed.

The nurse finally leaves them to it, stroking a sleeping Isabella’s slightly wonky ponytail on her way out.

“Guess gaining a brother isn’t the highlight of her day,” he laughs, shifting her in his arms so he can capture Betty’s lips with his. “Thank you Betts,” he whispers. “So much.”

Despite the no-doubt uncomfortable angle, she rests her forehead against his cheek. “You said that already.”

“You deserve to hear it again.”

“Jug,” she says, and he knows what she means: _you’re welcome_.

  
  
  
  


He’s gripped by a sudden panic the first night they bring him home.

It catches him off-guard: it hadn’t been there with Isabella, but here it is, looming over him as he stares down at his boy, thinking about all the possible ways in which he could fail him.

He doesn’t realise how tightly he’s gripping Denver’s crib - nor that Betty’s awake - until he feels her fingers massaging his own. It reminds him of when he’d told her that he wanted a baby those four years ago, when he’d promised her in the tiny bathroom of their then-apartment that everything would be okay, and yet here he is, having got everything he wanted, buckling under the weight of it.

Betty doesn’t say anything for a while, just leans against him and breathes so slowly that he finds he starts to match her.

“He won’t ever feel like that,” she whispers, already understanding everything he fears: that his son will feel about him the same way he felt about his own father; that he’ll be a disappointment. Before he can ask how she can be sure, she adds, “Because I _know_ , Jug. I know.”

  
  
  
  


“Next up is Denver,” the teacher says, beckoning for Jughead to join her at the front of the room.

He watches as his son jumps excitedly from behind his little desk, his dark curls bouncing forward. “This is my daddy,” he announces before he even reaches the front of the classroom where he’s supposed to stand for ‘bring your parent to school day’.

“And what does your daddy do?” the teacher - Miss Firth - prompts gently.

“He writes things,” Denver says, in probably the most dismissive way possible, and Jughead can’t help but smile. He’s worked damn hard to get his current position but that’s not his biggest achievement.

“But his other job is most important.”

A hand from the audience of little faces raises. “Yes?” his son asks.

“What’s his most important job?”

Denver gives the other boy a pointed look, like it’s obvious. “Loving me and Bella. Being our daddy.”

He hears a small gasp from the audience, and when he looks to the back of the room he sees Betty, lip trapped between her teeth and her eyes cloudy with tears. She grins at him though and he smiles back.

 

There’s a French word he’d come across the other day: denouement.

He thinks the translation might just be _this_.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always greatly appreciated.


End file.
